Tag Archives: BlogFestivus

Next up is Rudolph. Everyone thinks they know this story. But it was all hearsay. This is what really happened. (And I found I had to look up whether it was “hearsay” or “heresay”. Duh.)

And this concludes the nine-day exercise. I’m glad I completed it, but now I’m back to my weekly Monday posts. Whew, say you. My stats for December are skewed because of all this flurry of activity. Very nice! Thanks for reading all this triviality.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Rudolph.

Everyone knows the story of Rudolph, how the other reindeer used to laugh at him, call him names, not let him play any reindeer games. Don’t need to get into specifics here.

Rudolph went to a lot of pains to hide what he considered to be a serious birth defect, that big red schnozzeroo, glowing bright enough you’d need sleep goggles if you shared a stall with him.

Along comes Santa and here’s where the story gets dicey. The ice caps had started melting, the temperature of the ocean increased, and the fog rolled in. Santa couldn’t see the flask in front of his face with that fog.

Yo Rudy! Santa cried. Global warming is making my Christmas Eve a nightmare. Such fog as you’ve never seen! What say you help us out a little here? There’s something in it for you, if you do.

The rest is history. Rudolph guided Santa’s sleigh through the fog, with not one pileup, and now the other reindeer loved him. Yeah, sure. Easy to love a winner.

Rudolph’s salary was higher than all the other reindeer combined. He invested heavily in philanthropic ventures, including the YRCA, the RIAC, and the FUR Foundation in order to bring his income down to where he paid the same tax rate as his secretary and lived happily ever after in the top 1%.

Rate this:

Next up is Blitzen. Moral of this story is: Listen to others. They may be able to tell you bigger lies about yourself than you believed possible.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Blitzen.

Blitzen, diagnosed with PPD (Paranoid Personality Disorder), hid his affliction long enough to be taken on by Team Clause. But once he was surrounded by eight other reindeer, he was the odd buck out, befriended only by Dancer, who was, with her gender-identification issues, the butt of a few jokes of her own.

Blitzen and Dancer bobbed in the grog trough together, and stood side by side at the oat bucket and mash bins. Blitzen, ruled as he was by the powerful notion the other bucks talked about him, overreacted shamefully, constantly looking over his haunches, to see who was grazing together, gossiping about his shortcomings.

One day he found Dasher and Prancer together, as they whispered.

Dancer, sobbed Blitzen. They say my rack is a blighty joke!

No, Blitzen, no, said Dancer. They say your rack is a mighty oak.

The following day it was Comet and Cupid who did not make eye contact.

Oh, Dancer, mewed Blitzen. They say my chin is too big!

No, Blitzen, no, said Dancer. They say you are thin as a twig.

And that same night, he heard Vixen and Rudolph.

Oh, Dancer, cried Blitzen. They say I fly slow as a turtle!

No, Blitzen, no, said Dancer. They say you don’t fly but you hurtle.

Finally, Blitzen, convinced that he was wrong and Dancer right, smiled, ditched his excessive compulsions, became the lithe, strong buck he was meant to be and lived successfully ever after.

Rate this:

Next up is Donner. Moral of this story is: Uh, suck up for the first hundred years so you can be King of the Grog Hole? That’s not much of a moral, but it is what happened.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Donner.

Another Santa-induced name change occurred with Dunder, which evolved into Donder, and finally, probably due to Jack Frost nipping at Santa’s nose and Jack Daniels nipping at Santa’s gullet, Donner.

Donner’s father was a drifter and his mother, it was said, a fallen doe, having given birth without benefit of matrimony. Donner grew up in severe poverty, however he was lucky enough to be the recipient of a scholarship to the Clause Sleigh Training Academy offered by the Foundation for Underprivileged Reindeer (FUR). Donner, who aspired to pull himself up by the hoofstraps, completed his flight training and was named to Team Clause in the summer of ’96.

After one century, he received tenure at which time it took more than merely being voted off the Team by the other reindeer, it took an Act of Clause. Once he held the position securely, he began to plump up and returned to the old neighborhood, dressed in fancy clothing, smoking from a cigarette holder, throwing bucks around at the Grog Hole.

He liked to wear a black top hat, white gloves, a grey cummerbund and a white cashmere coat. As he stepped out of the hired limo, everyone stopped and stared, at the great Dunder, from the old neighborhood. Born into poverty, ascending into wealth.

All the other reindeer fawned over him, and took his coat and hat, and escorted him to the best seat in the house, whereupon Donner declared grog for everyone.

Rate this:

Two thirds of the way through. Not sure I’m going to make it. Sometimes it’s hard to keep thinking up this stuff.

Next up is Cupid. Moral of this story is: Persistence pays off in the end, especially if you wait a hundred years.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Cupid.

Cupid, born Cupiddomitryus, had been lovestruck since he was a calf, enamored of the opposite sex from the time he started on oatmash. He wrote poetry about unrequited love, even though the recipients of said poetry thought he might have his hoof up his butt. They shook their antlers at him and rolled their eyes.

Alas, Cupid always came on a little too strong and scared the little doekins away. As he watched how easy it was for the other young bucks and how difficult it was for him, he was devastated and wasted away, starved for love and affection.

His parents, sensing that he was adrift and possibly needed a kickstart into some sort of meaningful existence, managed to enroll him in the Clause Sleigh Training Academy. Surprisingly, he excelled and found a place on Team Clause when an old doe named Hortense retired.

He fell head over hooves in love with Vixen, who avoided him like a case of the mange. But still, he attempted to win Vixen’s favors with his poetry, which sounded like it had been written by an odd buck, who was one branch short of a full rack.

Vixen is my only love
The only one for me
When I watch her fly above
I am as horny as can be

Cupid’s poetry had no affect on Vixen, who ignored him for a hundred years, when suddenly, she relented and they married and lived happily ever after.

Rate this:

Wasn’t sure whether to post this today or not. Maybe many readers are just not in the mood for some blathering about reindeer.

At the risk of getting too political, there will be those who say (as they always do in the face of a massacre), “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” No. No, no, no. If the sick people could not have guns, they would not be able to take the lives of those who were innocently going about their daily activities, oblivious to the fact that they are about to come into contact with someone who is dangerously mentally ill and who, for whatever reason, wants to kill others at random.

It is time to take a serious look at gun control. But it may already be too late for that. Think about the vast quantities of guns already out there, how could it ever work? For sure, the majority of gun-owners would not give them up voluntarily. The ammunition would have to be controlled, and little by little it would become precious and cost much more than it was worth, and so maybe deter a fraction of the crazies.

We, as parents, have a responsibility to evaluate our children and determine if they are functioning normally or not. This guy, Adam, must have been exhibiting some characteristics that might raise an eyebrow. He had no interaction with friends. And what was his mother doing with a couple of Glocks anyway?

I feel so bad for those caught up in these situations, those unlucky enough to be in a place targetted by psychotics with guns. It is just by chance they are there, where there is danger.

If you don’t want to read further, I understand that. I wrote it yesterday before I knew, so I’ll post it.

Next up is Comet. Moral of this story is: It’s never to late for a second career.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Comet.

Santa stepped inside The Deer Hall, just as Comet and the Buckabillies were hitting the signature line of their signature song “…when the stalls come tumbling down …”. The microphone let out a squeal that nearly fried his hearing aid.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Santa exclaimed.

Thankfully, the other patrons didn’t hear him over the din. They hissed, booed, and covered their ears.

After the set, Comet sat at the bar, downing double grogs, and Santa plopped his plump posterior on the next barstool.

Comet downed the grog left in his trough. Everyone’s got the answer, Comet said. It’s our last night here. Fired.

Santa patted Comet’s haunch. Tell you what, he said. Might have an opening coming up. Slicker, been with me over two hundred years, got cataracts, gets dizzy. Needs the Oxy so as not panic now when he flies. All the other reindeer been bitching, saying he ain’t pulling his weight. They claim they’re hauling his deadass around. Gonna have to put him out to pasture, put him on Oatstamps. You look you got a few centuries left in you. Want the job? Consider it a midlife change in career.

Comet sighed. I’ll let you know.

You do that, said Santa.

Took Comet about thirty seconds. I’ll take it.

And Comet has been pulling Santa’s sleigh for well over one hundred years with no sign of slowing down.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Vixen.

Occasionally of a Friday night, Santa attended Happy Hour at The Deer Hall with Team Clause, and it happened he was there on a snowy March eve and spotted a lone doe at the bar’s end, blowing smoke at Moe the bartender from the 120mm Virginia Slim she’d just asked him to light. Vixen was her name, and having no opposable digits rendered her smoking a difficult habit to maintain.

After consuming a few Old Thumpers, it became necessary for Santa to take a trip to The Facilities, whereupon exiting, he approached Vixen as she drank her third Grog and Ginger.

I have seen, written upon the wall in The Facilities, to quote “For a good time call Vixen at 1-800-BadGirl”, whispered Santa.

Vixen lowered her false eyelashes, prepared for a sermon.

Enough of this, Santa said. The hoofpolish, the antler glitter. You’ve a nice rack there, no need to tart it up. You must come live a clean life, and be part of my Team Clause.

And so it came to pass that Vixen went to live in the Barn of Clause, and became well adept at flying and pulling Santa’s Sleigh with the other members of Team Clause who were all studbucks, except for Dancer who maintained a lifestyle which Vixen could hardly embrace.

Occasionally, a heady rustle could be heard in the wee hours in Vixen’s stall as she entertained various members of The Team.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Prancer.

Prancer, born to Lancer and Pristine Reindeer, was given a combination of both their names. On the night of Prancer’s birth, Lancer had a need to search for a snout full to celebrate it with the other bucks down at the Deer Hall, and left Pristine alone to attend the new hour-old foal.

Alas, Lancer never returned and it was not known what ill had befallen him, though some say he could be seen staggering, dead drunk, near a dangerous precipice.

Thus it was that Prancer was raised by his mother in a single-parent stall. And in his adolescence the other reindeer laughed behind his back and called him “Prissy Prancer” and made odd body movements, depicting a young buck of ambiguous sexuality.

Prancer, mightily pissed off and weary of the tauntings, began to work his muscles at the YRCA, where he developed a brawn quite unrivaled in its girth and strength and was endowed with uber-testosterone.

The last unfortunate young buck to sashay and whisper “Prissy Prancer” found himself on the ground, neck under Prancer’s right front hoof.

Thunder, said Prancer. That’s what you shall call me.

So Thunder he became, until Santa enlisted his indubitable strength for Team Clause, and who refused to know him as Thunder. Prancer is your given name, so shall you be known, said Santa.

And Prancer he was again called, but knowing of his bestial strengths, the other reindeer deigned not to screw about with him.

Rate this:

This is a bit harder than I thought. I am writing each day’s story the day before, so I don’t get into a writer’s block headspin on the Due Date. Below is the story about Dancer. My general idea: make each reindeer a little disfunctional in one area. Dasher has a problem with depression and overall crankiness. Read on, to discover what Dancer’s problem is.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

Dancer.

Of the nine reindeer, Dancer was the first to be employed by Santa. All the others came later and none of the other reindeer knew anything about what Dancer had done with his life before becoming part of Team Clause.

Every night Dancer disappeared for several hours, after the other reindeer were nestled in their beds, faking sleep.

Where did Dancer go?

And what about that name? Dancer? As yet, no one had seen him so much as attempt a soft shoe. And all his claims of being the four-footed Pony champion were conveniently unable to be substantiated due to the fact that any demonstration had to be done to the tune of “Runaround Sue” and none of the other reindeer had this forgotten golden oldie on any playlist.

When asked about his past, Dancer always shook his head so hard his antlers clattered together — he was quite well-endowed — and teared up. The past is better left alone, he said, his childhood memories too painful, except for being that badass clogger he’d been back when his rack was nothing but a couple of nubs.

One night, after too many bobs into the grog trough, Dancer revealed the truth: He had gender-identification issues. Dancer was actually a female.

The explanation then, of Dancer’s mysterious nocturnal disappearances. She slipped far away, into the deep snow of the North Pole, away from the crowded stalls, so that her counterparts would not see her squatting.

Rate this:

Here we go. I’ve never done this before, take part in a “Daily Writing Challenge” but decided to try it. For one reason, I want to see if I can write something funny every day for nine days. Funny by whose standards? Well, mine I guess.

Sponsored by Blogdramedy, each story will be about one of Santa’s reindeer and must be exactly 243 words long. Many other bloggers are taking part. The list follows the story, if you would like to check out other stories and compare.

First up – Dasher.

Dasher had once lived a life of relative ease, the good-ol’-boy reindeer, until thrown into the service of S. Clause during the winter of ’42 and then his days of lazy grazing and doe-stalking were over forever. That Clause guy. What a workaholic. And all so Dasher could afford the Old Buck’s Home for his aging, demented paternal unit, Reginald D Reindeer.

Born Dashwood B Reindeer, his name had been changed to “Dasher” in the first year of his apprenticeship, by Santa. The only reason Santa did this was because Dasher sounded better in the call to order. On Dasher, on Dancer, yada, yada. And anyway, when Santa’s lips were tingling with frostiness, he mangled everyone’s name. If it was frostiness. Who knew, with that moron. Just as likely a pint stuffed in his sock hat.

And what’s it all for anyway? Train, train, train, for 364 days a year. Then the big night comes and he’s just one of many. Just one of eight, while that fat-assed male bimbo, Rudolph, gets all the attention. And that’s because of a huge, shiny nose that lights up bright red. Oh, that’s attractive. Not.

Ask anyone, just ask, where Dasher was in the lineup. Not once, never, did anyone get it right. By the time he could ditch this gig, all the hot reindeer does would be taken. Crap.

It’s no wonder he woke up on the wrong side of the hay pile every morning.